


Getting into Trouble

by nightfalltwen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 18:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13300863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfalltwen/pseuds/nightfalltwen
Summary: Forced to sit at the very back of the Weasley-Granger wedding, Cormac and Romilda get into a little bit of trouble.





	Getting into Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **harry_lover88** during the 2017 Smutty_Claus fic exchange on livejournal. Special thank you to **glitter_pink** who gave me the plot bunny. I followed some of your head-canons, **harry_lover88** but others seemed to stay just out of reach for me. I hope you enjoy this. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

❦ ❦ ❦

"You want me to _what_?"

"It's an important event, Ms Vane, and you're the only reporter currently free with no other projects on the go. It took a great deal of convincing to allow a _Witch Weekly_ reporter to attend."

Romilda folded her arms across her chest, knowing that the movement would bunch up the delicate silk of her blouse and put angry wrinkles in it. "I _do_ have other projects."

Cornelia Pinzmetal pushed her wire frame spectacles up the bridge of her nose and raised her thin eyebrows. Romilda scowled. She knew what the editor of _Witch Weekly_ was thinking. When was the last time Malkin held an event that required a model? It hadn't been lately that was for sure. The old bat had celebrated the re-opening of Diagon Alley after the war with a new collection of robes of which Romilda and some other of her former classmates had modelled for the influx of shoppers. And new shows had continued seasonally for a time. But now Malkin was just doing special orders and school robes. No fancy collections. No fancy runway walks.

And though she still called herself a model, Romilda was finding herself with less and less of those calls and more assignments with the magazine which she'd taken on as a secondary job until the modelling opportunities picked up again. It was only supposed to be a temporary thing, but was becoming much more than just part time work.

"They're war heroes, Ms Vane." Cornelia held out a creamy white invitation. "And they're letting us attend in exchange for a moratorium on personal stories while they enjoy their first few years of marriage."

"It's Granger and Weasley," Romilda said, taking the heavy card-stock between her finger and thumb, reading the loopy printing in red and gold. She hoped she didn't sound like she was whining. "They really don't like me."

"I'm sure that's not the case," Cornelia said, turning her attention to the stack of papers on her desk. "Besides, you're there in a professional sense, not personal. Bring me back something interesting about the event. The guests. The food. Whatever you like. But I want it on my desk no later than Monday."

And just like that Romilda was dismissed.

❦ ❦ ❦

**December 18, 2004**

"The Great Hall is resplendent in reds and golds," Romilda spoke low to a Quick Quotes Quill. "A bit obvious in the choices, but it goes well with the Christmas decorations that Hogwarts has put on display."

She moved along the outside of the seating area, heading for a bench that was near the front of the room. The angle would be good enough that she could accurately describe what sort of dress Granger was wearing for the readers. Plucking aside a swath of fabric and flowers, she set her handbag down on a cushion, narrating a description of the venue and the guests while she adjusted the folds of her skirt and checked the seams of her stockings to make sure they were straight.

"You can't sit here," a voice spoke up from behind her.

"I was invited," Romilda answered, not looking back. "And no one else was sitting in this chair, so I don't see why I cannot."

"These rows are for family."

Glancing over her shoulder she met the irritated expression on Ginny Weasley's face. Romilda hadn't really spoken to or interacted with Ginny in a few years. There'd been times where the magazine had done a few write-ups on the Harpies and their work-life balance, but she'd never been on that assignment. She wouldn't have wanted to be either, interviewing Quidditch stars wasn't any sort of fun at all if it didn't give her a chance to wander around the mens showers.

"The bride agreed to an article in _Witch Weekly_ ," Romilda leaned over the chair and dug her press pass, folded creased around the edges, holding it out to Ginny. "I just need a good spot."

Ginny's hands went to her hips and she shook her head. "It can't be here."

Romilda opened her mouth to protest, but the steely expression on her former housemate's face spoke more volumes than words. With a resigned sigh she snatched up her handbag and gestured to the other woman to lead her to the _proper_ seating area. While they walked, Romilda wrote scathing comments in her head about the unfairness of certain family members and their lack of seating accommodations. That would show Ginny.

"Here," Ginny said, indicating the very last row in the hall.

"You're joking." Romilda peered down the long runner in the middle of the room. "I won't be able to see or hear anything..."

"Non-family doesn't get priority seating," Ginny said with a shrug.

"But the bloody Minister for Magic is sitting up there!" Romilda pointed at Kingsley Shacklebolt helping his statuesque, _gorgeous_ , wife to her seat.

"Kingsley's a family friend."

"But—"

"Please, Romilda. Just sit down."

Romilda cast one last look at the front seats where a number of familiar faces were gathered. Ginny made an insistent noise from behind. She waved her hand dismissively and took a seat near the aisle, consoling herself in the fact that she'd at least be able to see the bride up close before anyone else. Slowly, while speaking notes to the quill, she removed her gloves and dug around in her handbag for a compact to check her makeup.

"There's not going to be a good write-up in the _Prophet_ if you put me all the way back here," a voice spoke from the aisle. 

Romilda glanced over and saw Cormac McLaggen speaking to one of the student ushers and looking about as pleased as she was with his seating designation. "Sorry sir," the young man stammered. "I was just told that members of the press sit here."

"Do you even know who I am?" Cormac asked.

"Sports writer for the Prophet, sir. I read all your columns," the usher said, smiling a little.

"Why is a _sports_ writer even attending a social event?" Romilda interrupted loudly, still peering into her compact. She snapped it closed and tucked it away, glancing over at Cormac.

The usher took the momentary distraction to scurry away and resume his duties at the doorway, greeting other guests and directing them to chairs. Cormac frowned at the departing boy before turning his attention back to her. With no other alternative and the chairs filling up fast, he stepped past her and took the seat beside her, shuffling off his long coat. He stretched out his legs and looked up at the enchanted ceiling.

"Prophet's society columnist is off popping out her baby. Water broke right in the office morning. Editor told me I needed to cover this event." He waved his hand. "So here I am."

Romilda looked at him. Still the handsome, and a bit arrogant, man that he'd been when he was in school. Certainly no Harry Potter, obviously, but attractive nevertheless. She'd heard rumours of how he'd ended up at the _Prophet_ , but hadn't really paid much attention to them if she was quite honest with herself. Something about failing at being an auror, but she wasn't certain. At least not certain enough to make any sort of biting comment about it.

"Here you are," she answered finally, shrugging her shoulders. 

The Great Hall grew quiet and music started to play from somewhere above their heads. All at once the guests turned and the bridal party started to make its way into the room. For people who wanted to remain rather quiet and out of the spotlight, Ron and Hermione were making a very large spectacle of their union. Everyone was involved. All of Ron's brothers and their respective significant others. Harry looked very smart in his dress robes and Romilda made sure to mention that in her dictation.

It was a very moving ceremony.

And long.

Very long.

Romilda slumped back in her seat as another close friend of the family got to their feet to bestow a traditional wizarding blessing on the union. She hadn't expected them to go full on traditional. Not with Granger's side of the family being muggle. It was almost as bad as that one catholic wedding she'd attended between third and fourth year. It seemed to never end.

"Here," Cormac said, nudging her elbow. 

She looked down and saw that he was holding a little flask and she sucked in a breath. "You're _drinking_?"

"Why not?" he asked, lifting the flask to his lips and taking another sip before holding it out to her again. "This whole thing is boring. I've never liked the traditional wizarding shindig. It'll be at least another hour before they even kiss."

Glancing toward the front and the bride and groom she couldn't see, Romilda put away her quill and snatched up the flask, tipping it back. The firewhisky burned as it slid down her throat and she couldn't help herself, coughing as she held it back to him. A few people turned their heads; Cormac quickly slid the flask behind his back, giving the others a coy little salute. Romilda covered her face with her hands, the firewhisky already causing her cheeks to burn.

Cormac leaned closer and gestured toward the front with the flask. "Never understood what she saw in him," he said. "The man's an oaf. I doubt it'll last."

"Sorry?"

"Weasley and Granger up there."

Romilda squared her shoulders. "Well we're not here to judge, we're here to report."

"Bollocks. I'm here to judge," Cormac replied in a playful tone. 

"You're drunk," Romilda pointed out.

"No. Just bored."

"Well I'm not here to alleviate your boredom; I'm here to work."

He nudged her elbow with the flask again and after a moment, Romilda took it, telling herself that she really should just hand it back to him. But he was right, she was loathe to admit, this whole ceremony was dry and frightfully boring. At least he'd had the good sense to bring something to liven it up a little. Tipping the flask back, she took another sip. This time she managed to keep her coughing under control and just enjoy the pleasant warmth that seated itself in her belly.

"Bet we could get into a lot of trouble, you and I," Cormac said after a few minutes of passing the flask back and forth.

Romilda glanced at him and then waved off the flask when he offered again. She'd had enough and the edges of things were starting to feel a bit tingly and fuzzy. "I'm not about to ruin someone's wedding by getting into trouble."

Cormac leaned over, warm breath on her ear. She could smell the whiskey on his breath and hoped that the whisky on hers wasn't as strong. "Bet I could get into trouble without anyone noticing."

A shiver that she hadn't expected went right down the middle of Romilda's back and her concentration on the ceremony wavered, replaced by a swirl of imagination. In what was the very definition of Gryffindor boldness, Cormac's hand slid over her bare knee and halfway up her thigh. Romilda gasped and her eyes widened. They were in public! But she didn't stop him. She ought to, she said to herself, this was someone else's wedding. She ought to be thinking of them and not thinking about the fingers inching higher up her leg.

But she wasn't.

"I'll stop if you tell me to," Cormac said, his mouth still dangerously close to the thumping pulse in her neck.

"Is that so?" she asked.

"I'm very respectful."

"Except when it comes to other peoples' wedding ceremonies."

"That doesn't sound like you telling me to stop," he responded, his knees turning towards her and his hand sliding higher until she felt him inhale sharply. "Is it typical for reporters from _Witch Weekly_ to go about without their knickers?"

"More typical than you think." She let out a ragged breath. "Shame the _Prophet_ employs such prudes. I bet all those ladies wear big white granny knickers."

Romilda shifted in her chair, perching on the very edge of it. There was a definite benefit to being sat at the very back, she decided, as her knees parted. She was going to have to remember to thank Ginny for making her move. Maybe. At least everyone in the Hall was focused on the couple at the front and no one was looking back at the pair of them. No one could see the look on her face as Cormac's fingers brushed across the slick folds of her sex.

"Like that?" He asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Romilda nodded, biting her lip to keep from groaning. She did like it. She liked the danger of it all. The fact that there were more than a hundred people just beyond where they were sitting and his fingertip had begun to circle around her clit. Slowly at first and then rapidly flicking back and forth until the pulsing waves of her first orgasm coursed through her. Romilda's knees snapped shut, trapping his hand between her legs. Her body shuddered at the sensations that were rolling through her.

"Fuck..." she breathed.

❦ ❦ ❦

"The Charms classroom?" he asked as she pushed the door closed behind her.

The ceremony finished and the bridal party had shuffled out onto the rebuilt grounds for photos. Romilda waved off a tray of drinks as it floated by, the chairs magically rearranging themselves into a more intimate setting for drinks and appetizers. With the slickness between her legs not _too_ noticeable, she hoped, she'd seized Cormac's hand and dragged him with her out of the Great Hall.

"Either this or History of Magic. But Binns still floats in and out of his classroom," Romilda said, sliding her hands down his front to the belt around his waist. "Unless that sort of thing gets you off."

"Hardly," he said, moving her hands out of the way and undoing is trousers.

She shoved them down to his thighs, curling her hand around his hardened cock and pumping along the shaft. His breath started to come in satisfying pants and she reached up, her free hand at the back of his neck, pulling him down into a hungry kiss. He still tasted like whisky and something rough and primal. Her teeth scraped his lip and she bit down, rough enough to cause him to inhale sharply, but careful enough to not draw blood.

"This is a lot more interesting than sitting through a wizard wedding," he said.

"It better not end up in your column."

Cormac spun them around, lifting her up onto Flitwick's desk, his hands palming over her breasts still covered by her blouse. "Likewise," he said, hiking up her skirt. "Though I believe we are on a level playing field at the moment."

Romilda leaned back, pushing the rolls of parchment onto the floor. With the door shut and the party a few floors below, she allowed herself to moan as he slid into her, seating himself deep before pulling back and thrusting again. She reached up and pulled at her own blouse, popping buttons and tugging down her bra. Cormac's hand found a breast and he plucked at one of her nipples in time with his thrusts.

The other hand slid between their bodies, his thumb pressing against her clit once more.

Romilda cried out.

"Come for me again, pet," he panted, his hips snapping against hers.

She did. This time she didn't bite her lip. This time she squealed and bucked her hips, her body pulsing and squeezing all around him. Cormac ground his hips against her hard one last time, almost growling in his release. He slumped over her, his upper body pressing against hers as he caught his breath. She felt him slip from her and then groaned as a fingertip slid up inside, pressing upwards and rubbing against her sensitive flesh.

"I don't think I have it in me," she said, her rolling hips betraying her.

"We've got all night."

"Do we?" she asked, her breath hitching.

"My column isn't due until Monday," he said, smiling as he slid from view. "Yours?"

"Deadline is Sunday night," she said, knowing Cornelia had given her longer, but wanting to scoop the _Prophet_. She propped herself up on her elbows only to see him dip his head and lave his tongue across her clit. Her hips bucked and she groaned. "But it wouldn't... Wouldn't hurt to have it in a bit late...no later than Monday..."

She felt him smile.

It was quite honestly, the best wedding she'd ever attended.


End file.
